


all this running around, can't fight it much longer

by secondfiddle



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: AU, Crack? I guess, M/M, Other, about five years too late, ghost au, very clever reference to beetlejuice because im so smart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29037708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondfiddle/pseuds/secondfiddle
Summary: au where everything goes to plan
Relationships: Amanda De Santa/Michael De Santa, Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	all this running around, can't fight it much longer

When Dave sat him down to go over everything one more time, he ran by everything that could potentially go wrong. Both 'targets' (Michael hated it when he described them like that, as if they were less than human, just pests to be squashed out and forgotten about) might run, but as long as the FIB were on their toes they wouldn't get far. As long as Michael is the dead one, everything will turn out fine. Just go through the motions, play dead, and the big shots getting paid peanuts will do all the work. Get shot, move out West, and never speak of the Townley Era as long as he lived.

In his defense, he didn't hear the train. Three sweaty, terrified men all crammed together in a vehicle screaming at once? Couldn't stand a chance.

He at least got them to the spot. They start running, over to the decrepit barn up ahead. Any second now.

He reaches the doors to the barn when the shot rings out. He braces for impact, despite the vest he knows it's still gonna hurt like a bitch.

He feels nothing. _Fuck, they missed._ He hears Brad, howling like he's being dragged into hell. The second shot goes off, and he's unprepared for the searing pain blooming now in his chest. He falls into the snow, the fake blood bag prepped the night before seeping out around him.

There's someone beside him, eyes wide open. Never saw anything coming, none the wiser. Pests never do. They trust that the bait laid out for them is safe, chow down on the poison, and don't find out until it's too late.

He can't dart his eyes away, he has no idea where Brad is and the sirens are still too far away for the all clear. It's divine punishment, he thinks, that he has to stare at him, someone who had fire coursing through his veins twenty-four seven, snuffed out in less than a second. This one time, he really has to face the atrocity he's committed. 

It doesn't help when he feels Dave's leather dress shoe poke at his arm. Makes it worse, forces him to accept the reality of the situation.

The pain in his chest lurches as he jumps up, away from the body next to him and squints at Dave. He's not very certain the tears forming in the corners of his eyes are from the shot. "You fucking told me nobody was dying except for me, Davey."

Dave has so much pity in his eyes it makes Michael sick to his stomach. "I said there might be issues. Besides, you never... exactly spoke fondly of Trevor, from what I can remember."

\---

It's only a year into his new life when he starts seeing him again.

There's never a night Michael sleeps soundly all the way through. His head can only be on the pillow for a few minutes and his brain immediately starts cooking up a horrible scene to replay, either from memory or the depths of his imagination. It's usually him trapped in the snow, or drowning in a car. Sometimes he spices it up and lands back at home, frozen still on patchy, painted grass with nothing but the hot Friday night lights beating down on him.

_Tonight he's at the graveyard he was buried in, the frost sending chills straight into his bones. He can only make out three stones, but he's pretty sure he knows who they belong to._

_His fingers run across the names and dates on each of them, tracing each letter. He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss them sometimes. He's heartless, sure, but as far as he knew, nobody's perfected memory-erasing technology quite yet. It's difficult to forget the last twenty years. He's definitely tried before._

_He stops at Trevor's last name when he hears something faint. Soft whispering he can't make out. It's light enough he can't tell exactly what they're saying, but it's loud enough to make him curious. He brushes the dirty snow from his knees, and looks around, sees nothing but dead trees all around him. He turns back to the stones. Usually when he gets to the last one, he can wake up._

_There's only the stone he was tracing before at his feet now. And a second set of muddy boots._

_The boney hand gripping his chin to force his head up felt like it was hoping to come back to the real world with him. None of the things he's seen before during his previous sleepless nights prepared him for the rotting, peeling monstrosity staring back at him._

_"I know what you did, Townley. And so help me god, I will goddamn make sure you pay for it."_

Michael's surprised Amanda doesn't stir awake when he does, his white tee and boxers damp with sweat. He gets up, slowly pulls open the nightstand drawer, and starts the routine.

He did it when they lived in the trailer, he did it when they lived in the townhouse, and he still does it now. His feet are the only thing making a sound in the house, a soft _pap-pap-pap_ as he traces down the steps, through the kitchen and into the garage. Every night he has a really bad dream like that, he just does a once-over with his handgun, and goes back to bed. Just in case. You can never be too sure.

When he looks down at the pristine white carpet of the guest room upstairs and sees the wet, dark brown footprints, his hand clenched tighter around the grip. 

His heartbeat creeps farther up his throat. He whips open the doors of the closet, and finds nothing. Nothing is behind the curtains except the locked window. He peers under the bed, and finds only empty designer shoe boxes and storage bins. His hand pushes open the door for the connected bathroom, gun pointed straight ahead.

The footprints end at the bathtub, and Michael finds the caked boots inside of it when he rips back the shower curtain. There's gravel at the bottom of the drain, dirt on the sides and streaked across one wall. 

"I'm seeing shit. I've gotten ten hours of sleep in the past week, tops." Is this what it's like, slowly going insane? At least Trevor could blame it on drugs. "Go back to bed, I've circled around the house twice now."

He stops at the sink to splash some warm water on his face, just enough to soothe him a bit. He pats his face dry with a hand towel from the cupboard, looks down and notices the swipe of dirt on his shirt sleeve.

The man beside him in his reflection shakes his head. "Sorry there buddy, must've gotten some on ya." His dirty, blood-caked fingernails scrape again Michael's sleeve as he tries fruitlessly to rub it out. "You know me, always ruining your shit. Good thing I'm not around to muck your squeaky clean little Brady Bunch life now, huh?"

Amanda might've not been disturbed originally, but she's now wide awake when she stumbles through the bathroom door, day old mascara smudged under her eyes. She's gripping into Michael's arms, shaking him back and forth. "Michael. _Michael!_ What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

He stops screaming. His eyes darted to her, then behind him. The tub is spotless.

She notices the gun. "Jesus Christ." She picks it up gingerly and shoves it into the linens closet behind the fitted sheet and rolled up comforters. "I'm flushing those Ambiens down the toilet."

\---

Getting rid of his sleeping pills stops the terrifying dreams. Most of the nights. He's back after a few weeks though.

Michael almost drops his beer bottle when he notices that looming figure sitting on his shiny marble countertops, swinging his legs back and forth. Out of the many, _many_ things he was mocked about, the fact that Trevor has a good four inches on him was the most frequent target. Fortunately he doesn't look like an extra from a Romero movie this time, his jeans only dirty from years of wear time. The tip of his semi-clean shoe almost misses an orange peel dropping to the ground, the citrusy scent wafting through the air stinging the back of Michael's throat. 

"God, these are so good." Trevor's cracks the fruit open and peels off a piece, popping it into his mouth. "Remember bein' holed up in Minnetoke, and the only thing we had around resembling fruit were those little lemon pies from the gas station?" A little trickle of juice runs down his chin. "Now you just have a whole fuckin' bowl of 'em chilling on your counter."

Michael feels like he's being choked within an inch of his life. "You aren't really here. You're dead. You died a year ago. You do not exist. I haven't slept in a day and I'm seeing shit now." If he repeats it again, maybe it'll work. " _You. Are. Dead._ "

Trevor rolls his eyes. "Yeah, don't remind me or anything, dickhead." He flings a stringy piece off of his fingertips. "Feels fan-fucking-tastic not being able to do anything."

"Then why- how the fuck…" Michael wipes his eyes, maybe that's the trick. "Why are you in my house?"

"Beats me. They don't exactly give you a handbook or anything when you bite the big one." He's nice enough to scrape his peels into a neat pile on one side of his thigh. "I just walk around in this huge white room and if I'm lucky I pop into somewhere cool. Gotta say, the Bible really oversells the place."

Michael can feel his palms getting clammy. "So. You've come to finally possess me or some shit?"

Trevor flicks a peel at him. "Wish I could, but no. You're actually the first person who's acknowledged my existence, believe it or not." He hears the laughter outside and looks out the sliding glass door. "Besides, kinda rude to kill you on your daughter's birthday."

Shit. Michael's completely forgotten about everyone outside. He repositions himself to not be in the sightline of any of the windows. "Thanks, I guess. Nicer than you were a couple weeks ago in my fuckin' bathroom." 

"My _utmost_ apologies. I should've known I wasn't gonna get a warm fucking welcome from you." Trevor shoves another orange slice into his mouth. "Man. Only been a year and she looks so different.

Michael rests his head against the fridge. Fine. If Trevor's not gonna leave he can at least be nice. "Yep. Turning fifteen. Already begging me to get her a car."

Trevor smiles a bit. "She'd be great. I remember her running over Jimmy in that little Bitch Dollz jeep she got on her seventh." He pulls his legs up, tucks them underneath each other. "She'd always beg me to let her drive my truck. I think her little legs were a solid five inches away from the pedals. I sat her in my lap the one day, let her steer and I pushed. She thought she was so grown up."

Michael looks up at him. "How come I don't remember this?"

"Couldn't tell ya. You were _so_ pissed off at me. She was happier than a goddamn clam, though." Trevor starts to pick at a second orange. "I know, I'm rambling. Having nothing to do and nobody to talk to except for yourself kinda does that to you." 

The rock buried in Michael's stomach after that day gets heavier. "Must be eating you alive, nobody around to bicker with."

"I'm sure it's eating you more than me, sugartits."

Before Michael can even retort, Amanda's head peeks through the archway in the kitchen. " _There_ you are, I've been looking for you everywhere. We're gonna cut the cake and open some presents, I need you to take pictures." She re-adjust her gaze on Michael. "What've you been doing in here?"

He swings his beer up. "Just grabbin' a drink."

Amanda glances over at the littered counter and swears. "For Christ's sake, I've told Jimmy fifty goddamn times not to leave his snack trash all over my house." She swoops over to scoop up the peels, over and around where Trevor was sitting minutes prior, and dumps them into the sink. "Don't peel another one if you're not gonna eat it. _Sheesh_ , he's even worse than you."

\---

"God, you look positively _disgusting_ in that fuckin' three piece. Like...like a little piggy banker."

Michael swears he jumps three feet out of his loafers. It's a bit hard to turn around in the already cramped Vangelico's dressing room, especially when there's a second, grimy human pressing against you. " _Jesus,_ now?! You decided _now_ was a great fucking time to drop on in?!"

"Sorry I didn't make an appointment with your _secretary,_ Mr. Townley. I haven't been able to get cell service in Purgatory to reach you." Trevor has no issue with the lack of space, and leans on the back door. "Maybe I was sent down here to prevent you from buying a suit some greasy car salesman wouldn't be caught dead in."

"Can't you just-" Michael tugs on the silky collar stuck to his neck. Why is it _hot_ in here? "Can you please just go back to wherever you go when you're done fucking around with me?"

Trevor's eyes light up. "Oh-ho- _ho_ , isn't that real goddamn rich? 'Oh Trevor, I know I had you killed for my personal gain and all, and your entire existence now is just reliving the same tortuous moments of your own life over and over again, but could you kindly fuck off while I use the money from all the illegal shit we've done over the years to buy some beige monstrosity? Please and thank you!'"

Perhaps it's a force of habit, but Michael's hand shoots up to slap itself over Trevor's mouth. "You mind being a pinch quieter while you rake me over the coals? We're not in my house, y'know."

Trevor bites on Michael's palm to get him off. "I couldn't give less of a fuck. I'm fucking dead, Mikey." He throws his hands in the air. "Nobody else fuckin' pays any attention, watch."

Before Michael can react, Trevor hops on the bench, peering over at the other patrons as he starts to moan as loud as humanly possible. " _God yes Michael, fuck me harder! I'll call you Daddy, I don't care, just ram that big meatstick in me! Please god, I wanna put your big sweaty balls right in my mouth! I wanna cum all over this hideous three thousand dollar sports jacket! Ugh yeah, shove that wooden coat hanger down my peni-"_

Trevor comes tumbling down when Michael loops two fingers into the back of his jeans and yanks as hard as possible. "See? You're the special one."

"Great, awesome, thanks for letting me know. Can you please let me finish?"

"Hey, wait a second." Trevor picks up Michael's t-shirt, balls it up, and whips it as hard as he possibly can against the dressing room door. "You've been a massive slob all your life, why the fuck are you buying a suit?"

Michael shrugs off the sports jacket and hangs it back up. "I'm allowed to splurge on myself. Amanda's not the only one who gets to burn the cash."

Trevor looks at him, then in a flash leaps to Michael's jeans on the floor to fish his Blueberry out of the back pocket. Michael's at a complete disadvantage with the dress pants around his ankles, and he's futile in his attempt to pry it out of Trevor's hands. He's close, but the pants bunch around his ankle in just the wrong way that he slips to the floor.

"'Hey kitty, getting dressed up all for you, dinner still at 8'? 'Yes baby, I can't wait for dessert after'." Trevor cocks his head. "What, did Amanda change her name to Yandy and I didn't know about it?"

"No that's-" Michael sighs in defeat as he gets himself up. Might as well tell him, who's Trevor gonna spill the beans to? "It's a. Uh. Girl I met at the club."

He's almost knocked back down by Trevor slapping him across the cheek. "Hey! _What the fuck?!_ "

Jesus, that might be the same death stare Amanda gives him. "You absolute fucking slimeball."

" _What_ ? Since _when_ have you cared about my marriage?"

"Two years." Trevor laughs. "Only two fucking years and you're already back to being a desperate fuck picking up barely legals from the bar." He can barely stop cackling to get his words out, this is apparently the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Put a nice suit on a creep, it's still just a creep in a suit."

"Well I don't know, maybe if my own wife would see me as her husband, and not a living ATM machine she can bicker at sometimes, I wouldn't have to try finding nicer women elsewhere." Michael rubs at his cheek while he yanks his own jeans back up. "I have needs, they aren't being met. Simple as that."

"Do- _Do you hear the fucking words coming out of your mouth right now?_ " Trevor hops back up on the bench. "Remind me again Michael, what- sorry, _who_ was the main reason you wanted out?! And now you're fucking telling me you couldn't give less of a shit about her?!"

"Fine! _Fine!_ Shit is fucking complicated T! Okay? Is that what you want me to say? You want me to say I fucked up and nothing is perfect like I thought it was gonna be! _Great._ There you fucking go. You happy now?"

Trevor's tight lipped when someone knocks on the dressing room door. "You mind being a pinch quieter?"

"Mr. DeSanta? Is everything okay in there?"

Michael walks out and almost hits the assistant with the door, unceremoniously thrusting the balled up suit in his hands. "Yeah- peachy keen. And can you add on the sapphire cufflinks up front to my order? Thanks."

In the haste of everything, it isn't until he gets to the car when he notices the teeth marks in his palm.

\---

Trevor leaves him alone for five, long, quiet years. Each day just melts into the next, the same _eat drink drink drink pass out eat drink drink drink drink drink pass out wake up_ routine being repeated everyday ad nauseam. This is Michael's true version of life after death, one day after the next roasting slowly under the Los Santos sun, aimless and without a purpose or meaning to anything. 

He can keep everything duct taped together until seven years into his brand new life. That's when Amanda saw his credit card statements. And then checked his phone. And, just for good measure, called one of the numbers he cheekily put under as one of Jimmy's teachers.

Probably wasn't a great idea, in hindsight. He barely glances at either one of their report cards. 

He's still begging as her suitcase slams down the steps, Jimmy's smaller one bopping down close behind. No need to take Tracey with her, it's a Friday, so she probably won't be back until Monday night. "Mandy, c'mon, we can talk through this. I'll schedule a session tomorrow. You're being-"

"Crazy? Dramatic? Bitchy? Not sure which one you wanna use, pick one." She rips open the coat closet to grab one for her and Jimmy. "You're not smooth talking your way out of this one, Michael."

He follows her out to the porch. "You can't even go anywhere. Where are you taking my son?"

She opens the car door for Jimmy, closing it as soon as he's strapped in. "I'm going to a hotel. You don't need to know. He'll be fine."

"Like fucking hell I don't need to know. He's my _son_." 

Amanda barks out a laugh. "It's fine. You hardly parent him anyways, he won't notice a difference."

Michael steps off the porch. "Mandy, c'mon. Get back inside. We need to just chat."

"Fuck you Michael, I'm done _chatting_ ." She slams the trunk closed as soon as both suitcases are inside. "Go back inside and fucking call your little _girlfriend_ and whine about your harpy wife to her. I'm sure she'll be happy to be with you."

"Mandy, look, I'm sorry."

"Do you know how hard it was for me to just leave my life?" She looks up at him. "I never got to say goodbye to any of them, Michael. My parents, my sister, any of my friends. I just fucking ceased to exist, as far as they know. I've been living a fucking lie for the past seven years, and I'm tired of having to be fucking grateful for it." Her bug-eyed sunglasses reflect the sunset when she walks to Michael. "You fucking dragged us into that. My daughter's first memory is me hiding with her in her nursery while you blow out gang member's brains the next room over. I'm terrified when it comes back to me, any day one of the countless people you fucked over is going to find us. You promised me two fucking things Michael." She puts a finger up. "To keep your family safe and two-" She shoves both of them in Michael's face. "To love me and me _alone_. You fucking promised me the goddamn world, Michael. And I trusted you, because I loved you more than anything else. I chose you over my family, I chose you over a sense of normalcy, I sacrificed my career and my fucking life because you promised me you'd make everything better." 

Her hand pushes her sunglasses up as she wipes away tears, and she opens the driver's door.

"Was _any_ of our sacrifices enough for you, Michael?"

Michael feels frozen as he watches her drive off into the night. He walks back inside, lifeless. His whole reason for everything that he's done, all he's given up for, gone from his fingertips, shattered into pieces, and he has no idea how he can glue it back together.

He breaks open the vintage red wine he was saving for their anniversary dinner next week. Amanda's favorite. He pours a glass, takes a sip. He sets it down, and his eyes lock onto his phone.

The loud plunk of the phone hitting the pool and sinking to the bottom doesn't make him feel any better.

\---

"- _C'mon...hey, sleepy._ Wake up."

He gurgles on his spit and sits up, empty brandy bottle falling from his fingertips to the carpet. He's on the couch, the empty bottle of red beside him. He's not sure how long he's been out for, but the movie he was watching ended, and has been replaced with a rerun of some shitty sitcom. Last thing he remembers was talking to Amanda before she left.

Fuck. He needs to call her.

He stands up and immediately regrets it when the whole room spins. He stumbles to the countertop, pawing around for his phone and coming up short. He's scrambling, where the fuck did he put it, oh God, did she take it with her-

"You chucked it into your pool." That fucking bastard is on his counter, legs swinging back and forth, peeling an orange from his fruit bowl. "Good fucking riddance, I'd say."

He can't muster up anything good, so he just scowls at Trevor. "Fuck you. Go back to hell and stay there."

"I wish with all my cold, dead heart I never have to see your ugly mug ever again, yet here we are, baby." He bites into a chunk of fruit. "Two lowlifes forced together."

"I'm not a ffucki-" Michael's hand slips across the cabinets and he stumbles forward. "I'm not a lowlife. I'm nothing like you." Vodka is most definitely not Michael's liquor of choice, but he's not choosy right now. "That's why I ran away from you."

Trevor watches him uncap the bottle and take a huge, undignified glug. "We are different, that I understand. I at least was honest with myself that I am a piece of shit and have done some not great things. You, on the other hand…"

Michael laughs and waves his hands around mockingly " _Wooooohoo!_ Lookit me, I'm _Trevor,_ I'm so _honest_ and _free_ with being a scumbag! I _love_ robbin' shit, doing drugs and fuckin' anything that moves!" He takes another swig. "Look at where that got you."

Trevor leans in, his breath chilly against Michael's ear. "You seem to fucking forget, _sugartits,_ I wasn't ready to fucking die. _You. Fucking. Killed. Me._ " He pushes Michael into the fridge and hops back onto the island. "You were completely okay with taking Brad and I's asses out so you could play fucking house in the hills. You're just pig mad your body came back to haunt you."

Michael wipes his wet lips on the back of his hand. "We wasted twenty years together. I regret all of that now, completely, but I wasn't dead set on you biting it. You were… ah, what am I trying to say?" He snaps his fingers after a bit of thinking. "Collateral."

It's dirty, Michael knows. He's really not in the mood. Trevor's silent. Michael takes a hit from the vodka again.

"I saw you cry. Some nights. When you watched it happen again." A peel drops to the ground. "You can try telling me you don't care, you want me to rot in the ground. I know you. At this point? Probably more than yourself." Another peel falls into his lap. "I'm not a quack or anything, but once you're finally honest with yourself, you can probably let go."

"You don't think I've been trying to forget everything that's happened, T?" He waves the bottle around somewhere in the vicinity of Trevor's face. "Clearly this shit doesn't help."

"Then you fucking tell me Michael. Let me know why you left me to die."

" _I didn't have a fucking choice, Trevor!_ " Michael slams the bottle down onto the counter. "I had no other fucking options! The FIB knew where we were, what we were doing, what we fucking ate, everything! They came to me and told me either I could keep my family safe or we all fucking went down!" He's so drunk, the whole room shifted with every word coming out of his mouth. "I didn't want my fucking kids having to tell their friends that they don't have a fucking dad, or that he's behind bars for the rest of his life. I didn't want Amanda supporting two kids by herself in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I-" He stops, he can barely catch his breath. "I didn't want them growing up like us, Trevor. The cycle needed to be broken."

"That doesn't explain why you just let me bleed out."

Goddammit. Michael grabs Trevor by the shoulders. "When is it going to get through to you that _you weren't supposed to die._ They shot the wrong person, T. I _wanted_ you to get away, the last thing I fuckin' asked for was for you to go down." The smell of the oranges makes him want to puke. "I don't- I don't understand what we had. I don't know if it was friendship, brotherhood, some fucking tragic bond or...or something else. I won't ever have that with anyone on this planet, T. They fucked it up. _I fucked up._ "

Michael starts to laugh. Perhaps from the absurdity of everything, maybe because his brain has finally broken. "And look at where it's gotten me, T. My wife fucking left me, my kids want nothing to do with me, I spend every day drinking, smoking and hoping one of the two takes me out." He grabs the bottle and takes a big drink. "I'm standing here, wasted and talking to a fucking ghost. All fucking worth it. It was worth everything I fucking sacrificed. Perfect fit for a fucking two-bit loser like me."

Michael looks up and realizes there's nothing on the counter than some orange peels.

He panics. Where did Trevor go? Why did he leave? He trips around the island into the living room to search for him, comes up with nothing. He calls out for him as he stumbles around his maze of a house, looking for something, anything. Just a glimpse of him. Proof that he's not alone.

He falls into the guest bedroom, spilling the rest of his vodka bottle into the carpet. He doesn't have the energy to get up, so he drags himself into the bathroom, the tile cold under his hands. 

It hits him now, sitting in the dark bathroom, that he really is gone. There's no prayer or ritual bringing a dead man back. Maybe this is what Trevor meant, to let go and be free.

He doesn't want to be free. He needs Trevor now more than ever.

Michael realizes where he is, and remembers that Amanda hid her Valium in this medicine cabinet instead of the master bathroom, particularly because Tracey had a nasty habit of rooting through it. He uses the countertop to hoist himself up, and push the mirror in to open the cabinet. In her haste to leave, she forgot to grab it.

He can barely see. He pushes down and turns left, fumbling with the lock. Almost there-

Michael feels a second set of hands tugging on the bottle. He tightens his grip. It's no use, and he falls back to the floor as the figure opens the bathroom window and chucks the prescription out into the bushes below.

He's back in the snow, frozen for a few long seconds before letting out a wail deep within, screaming and wailing to the darkness. The figure's standing over him now, watching him struggle.

" _You fucking prick! You motherfucking scumbag!"_ Michael barely has any voice left in him, but by god he's gonna let it all out. " _Why the fuck are you doing this to me?! Let me fucking die!"_

He pounds on the cold tile, heaving, trying to catch his breath. He wants to throw up so bad. He just wants to choke on his own puke and die here, sweating in his wrinkled button down dress shirt, a fitting end for a pathetic fat drunkard. "Please T, I miss you so much, I don't know what to do without you. Everyday is the same. If I could go back and do it again I would tell Dave to fuck off and it would just be you and me." He lets his hot tears roll down his cheeks, and sniffles. "I need it to end."

He looks up at the shadow, faceless, no emotion. He can barely muster the strength to whisper. "I don't know how else I can tell you I'm sorry."

The last thing he remembers is Trevor's hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting. "I forgive you, Michael. I could never stay mad at you."

  
  


\---

Michael has no troubles until three years later, when he's woken up in the middle of his second afternoon nap by some rustling in the bushes outside.

He peeked outside to see some kid, not much older than Jimmy, hop onto their roof, and through the bathroom window. Into the house.

He's ready to find his gun and tell this idiot exactly who he's messing with, until he remembers Jimmy blabbering to him a couple of weeks ago about his brand new car and the wonderful high interest rate payment plan the scummy car dealership gave him. And the 'totally gangsta, bro' guy hanging out in the showroom, introduced to him as the repossessions 'manager'.

Okay, so maybe it was a little ridiculous of him to hide in the back. Jimmy was right, it did have a ton of cargo space. And hey, he's excited to meet new people.

The other guy probably didn't appreciate having a gun to his head though. Nobody does. 

He wasn't expecting him to show back up at the house a couple days later, interrupting his normal routine of ignoring the chaos of his family for some sun, a nice cigar, and a little bit of yacht rock to set the mood. Maybe now he'll meet his maker. God, he's so tired of this shit.

He pulls up his sunglasses, and sets his cigar down. "What do _you_ want?"

"Man, I've just come by for that drink you've offered, that's all."

\---

His heart is beating so fast in his chest, he can hear the blood pumping and flowing through his head. Might be a sign to cut back on those cigarettes after all.

The temper glass housing the diamonds shatters all over Michael's feet, glittering under the hot display lights. He snatches everything indiscriminately, like a miner that's finally struck gold.

How Lester found him again is beyond his comprehension. He's pretty sure Lester might've been following him ever since, but he's not exactly sure. He really doesn't want to know. As long as this gets Madrazo off his back, everything's peachy keen.

He signals to Franklin to start running, before the cops wake up and start coming. He grabs the last bit of jewelry he thinks looks valuable, and heads off as well. 

A part of him hurts a bit when he shines a diamond tennis bracelet the right way and remembers the department store he and Trevor held up in '89, how much fun they had. How much fun Trevor would be having right now.

He's split off from the main crew and headed back home when Amanda calls him.

"Hey sweetie. I'll be back home in twenty."

"Fine fine, that's-" She sighs. She sounds stressed. "I called for Chinese."

"Everything good?"

"Yes, it's-" She sighs again. "Michael, you need to call Dave. There's trouble."

Michael's quiet for a moment. "Talk to me. What's wrong."

"I checked our bank statement. He hasn't cashed your checks in three months."

Michael freezes. Dave cashes those checks the second he gets them, it's out of the ordinary for him to- "Hold on, I got another call. We'll talk at dinner."

"Michael-"

He hangs up and checks the caller ID. Speak of the devil.

"Davey, hey. Just talkin' about you. Everything good."

"Not really, no." He sounds different, gravelly. Maybe it's the cell service. "We need to talk. Meet me at Galileo Observatory as soon as you can."

Michael doesn't feel good about this. "Cool. I'll be there in a few."

\---

He pulls up to the Observatory, and parks next to Dave's car. He walks up the staircase, and takes a moment to enjoy the sunset a bit, the way it glows over the hills and the skyscrapers far away. Sometimes he takes the beauty for granted.

He sees the back of Dave sitting on a bench, looking over the balcony. He sits beside him, doesn't even glance over at him. He can probably guess what this is about.

"Look Davey, I needed the money. Trust me, the last thing I wanted to do was get back in the game." Michael pulls out a cigarette and lights up. "I don't know if you're fucking mad, or what, but trust me when I say it was a one time thing, okay?" He exhales. "I'm fully retired. Just doin' some mentoring, that's all."

Dave doesn't say anything.

Michael turns to him and scoffs. "You're not even gonna say anything? Just give me the cold shoulder?"

Dave is rigid when he finally speaks, tense and ready to pounce. "You really thought I wouldn't find you someday, Townley?"

He realizes now, far too late, that the man beside him is far too skinny to be Dave. He tries to get up and run, but the man turns so quickly and strikes him across the cheek, cigarette flinging out of Michael's mouth. He falls to the marble floor, and chokes up when the man puts his shoe on Michael's neck.

Brad points his gun straight onto Michael's face, unwavering. "Spent nine years in the slammer. Only took me five of them to figure out I wasn't writing to Trevor after all." He smirks. "I have friends in high places too, Michael. They talked, all of those scumbag agents eventually do for the right price. Even your little buddy. Led me right to you. And weirdly enough, you're still alive."

Michael coughs. "I don't give a fuck what shit you wanna settle with me Brad, don't fucking touch my family. They didn't do shit to you."

Brad tightens his grip. "They didn't ruin my life and take everything from me, Michael. You did. And now you're gonna fucking pay."

He looks out at the sunset, then looks back down to Michael. "And hey. When you get to hell, tell Trevor I said hi."

\---

Michael wakes up in a white room. He gets up off the floor and looks around. It goes on forever, seemingly no end in sight. He starts to walk, nothing changes. There's no sound at all, just him and the abyss.

He smells something. The cloyingly sweet acidity of oranges. He keeps walking, and finds his kitchen island in the middle of the room.

Trevor drops a peel onto the ground. "Hey. Nice of you to finally show up." He rips the orange in half. "Want some?"

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee im back and more depressing than ever!!!!!!!!!
> 
> this was an idea floating in my head for the longest time and I got started a while ago, but never finished it. maybe its my very last fic, a good send off if you will. finally kill both of these slimeballs for good.
> 
> i dont know why, but this is truly my ride or die fandom. Im still always so fascinated by what others come up with and can craft. there's still just so much unexplored ideas and concepts. it's been a whole ass 8 years my pals. I played this game my freshman year in 2015 and 6 years later im still enamored with a greasy old man and his wild ass friend.
> 
> thank you to everyone who's inspired me to write, to those who've given me support. love you all :) big hugs and kisses
> 
> title is from let it happen by tame impala. i beg you please listen to my trikey playlist on spotify she's got some bangers 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Vorlrh5vwBcrz0MVjvaL5?si=8iPNlIVpRZaHlOZV6z-IDw&utm_source=copy-link
> 
> some less lovey weepy notes:
> 
> • VERY proud of myself for only referencing beetlejuice ONCE in a fic all about ghosts. please clap.  
> • its been so long since ive played the game i had to look up the cinematics on youtube to make sure i had dialog and timing right. im sad.  
> • i apologize if the timeline is a little off, math was never my strong suit  
> • yes, you will get some tonal whiplash if you read my other works, which include michael jackin it to Trevor's sex tape and the two of them making a sex tape.   
> • trevor screaming in the dressing room was the most fun i had writing anything ever, and youre talking to someone who wrote a scene with the two of them golfing together


End file.
